


Four Inches Thin

by SkadiLaughedFirst



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Dark!Thor, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, Loki...doesn't really have the opportunity to make bad life choices, M/M, Unreliable Narrator, read between the lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:22:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkadiLaughedFirst/pseuds/SkadiLaughedFirst
Summary: In this little house, where the shared wall’s thin, secrets should be much harder to keep.





	1. See No Evil

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? A new Loki-suffering fic? That I have all pre-written and will just post slowly throughout the next week? Yep. Enjoy! As always, comments and critique immeasurably brighten my day.

It’s money tonight. Again. It’s often about money when they argue. Sometimes it starts over dinner – money wasted on a meatloaf Angrboda bought and Loki couldn’t stomach. Sometimes it’s little Hela – money Angrboda forgot to leave Loki for her meds. Sometimes it’s the rent and how much higher it gets each time Skadi throws trash at their porch. If Angrboda’s angry enough to talk about Skadi, she’s angry enough to bring up the accident. To remind Loki that they’d found pieces of Thijazi still stuck and dripping down the slaughterhouse line. Some nights that’s enough. But mostly, it’s just the last Thor hears before dull thuds hit their shared wall and Loki hisses little gasps of pain. Some nights, he cries. With only four inches of foam and plaster between the duplex’s units, Thor can’t help but hear. He’d bought a TV when he’d first moved in, but now it sits unplugged in the corner. Now Thor just closes his eyes and listens for Loki’s hoarse, whimpered answers. Just to make sure he’s still answering. 

There’s a cry through the wall – “’Boda, please!”

“Please what? What the fuck –” Thor hears the blow land hard. “What more do you want from me?” He can almost believe Angrboda is crying, too. Almost. Then Hela’s wheezy wails cut through the wall. “Fuck,” Angrboda sobs. “Go, get up. Go handle her.” 

Thor listens as Loki staggers to his feet. He follows him, and pads slowly down the length of the wall to where he knows the toddler’s crib sits. Loki’s voice is soft from the other side as he mumbles sing-song nothings to soothe her. Thor’s phone buzzes in his pocket, reminding him to leave for work. He ignores it. Just a moment longer. Until the voice coming through the wall goes quiet. He wonders if Loki can hear him just as clearly. His heartbeat. His breathing. His – 

 

It’s a grey morning for spring. Thor rolls down the truck’s windows to breathe in the wet, green earth. After a night spent sifting through sparkplugs and the guts of the first-floor wiring, the fresh breeze is all that’s keeping him awake. Geirrod’s Hall is a nice enough town in the spring. Green enough and by the interstate, tucked in the bend of a clear, blue river. And it’s not as if Thor minds the smell. There’s blood and heat mixed in with the spring, leaking out of the squat slaughterhouse and the rendering plant beside. It’s a short drive from there to the drab brown duplex. The road turns to gravel under Thor’s tires and he chokes the engine to a stop in front of the small crowd gathered on the Laufeyson’s porch.

Red. Loki’s hands and knees are red as he struggles to slough off the paint dripping down the plyboards. He’s desperately trying not to look up at Thanos dragging Skadi back down the steps. The empty bucket is still swinging in the girl’s hand. 

“He’s a fucking murderer,” Skaid screams as Thor steps out of his truck. Thanos’ thick fingers are bruising her arm as he pulls her down the drive. He passes Thor with barely a glance and shoves the girl onto the curb. “He’s gotta pay.” She sounds terribly young.

“Kid,” Thanos growls. “Last warning. You stay off my lot or –”

“What? Or what?” He’s twice her size, but Skadi still squares up to him. “Cops in this town can’t do shit.”

Thanos’ lip twitches. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’s gotta call the cops?”

Thor stands there with one hand still on the door of his truck, wondering if he should step in. He doesn’t have to, in the end. Skadi doesn’t stay. As soon as she’s walked down the road and out of sight, Thanos stalks back up to the porch. Bearing down on  
Loki. Thor doesn’t get in his way. He keeps himself busy unloading his truck as he watches.

“I’m adding the damage to next month’s rent,” Thanos announces. “You can tell ‘Boda.”

Loki swallows. He doesn’t look up. “You don’t need to fix it,” he starts.

“Who said I would?” Thanos scoffs. “Fee for property damage.” He’s waiting for Loki to argue. Thor’s waiting to see that, too. But Loki can’t even meet Thanos’ eye.

“How much?” he asks quietly. Fearfully. Thanos grins.

“See how I feel at the end of the month,” he says, cheerily. He claps Loki’s shoulder on his way out and nods at Thor as he drives off. Thor nods back. A shaky breath from the porch on his left draws his attention back. Loki’s taken off his sweater to keep the paint off it as he cleans. His shirt rides up the body ridges of his spine. Thor watches the thin back move with each breath. He can see bruises there, along the bones.

“Hey.”

The voice startles Loki. For one awful moment he thinks Thanos is back. Or ‘Boda’s home early. But he looks up and it’s only Thor and he’s smiling. Loki lets himself breathe.

“Hey,” he answers.

“Need a hand?”

Loki eyes the small towel he’s soaked through. The paint’s already started to dry between his fingers. He sighs and stands, tossing the towel away. “Thanks, but,” he smears paint on his pants as he cleans his hands. “It’s not worth it.” Thor nods, and his smile fades.

“Piece of work, that kid.”

Loki shrugs. “She’s lost her dad,” he offers. Thor doesn’t particularly seem to care. He’s much more interested in the shabby porch.

“I could help you guys paint this, if you like,” he says. He runs his hand over the shaky railing.

“Thanos’d probably double his damages fee,” Loki jokes. Half-jokes. Still, Thor smiles.

“Prick.”

Somehow, that makes Loki laugh. And laughing helps his hands stop shaking.

“Listen,” Thor tells him, “and tell me if I’m outta line or what. But that wall’s pretty thin.” Loki drops his gaze. He scratches uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He’s already running through his excuses and apologies. Thor doesn’t give him the chance to say them out loud.

“I’m on this contract in Sioux Falls. Some electrical work. Anyway, the building’s hiring a security guard for the night shift. They don’t need experience or anything,” he adds. And pauses. Loki doesn’t know what he’s expected to say. “I can bring you up an application tomorrow, if you like.”

“That’s… I’m not,” Loki stammers and stumbles and Thor’s grin just grows. “I can’t ask you to do that,” he manages lamely.

“You didn’t,” Thor reminds him. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow.” Loki just nods, stupidly, and almost forgets to thank him until Thor is half-way back to his own front door. And in the same breath as the thanks comes, “Why?”

“Why what?” Thor smiles.

“Why are you –” He doesn’t want to ask why Thor’s helping him. Doesn’t want to admit he’s needed help for so long that he’s almost forgotten how to take it. Even though he’s sure Thor can tell. People talk. People don’t help people like Loki. “Why are you doing this?” he asks instead. He stops just short of asking, “and what do you want for it?” He’s pretty sure he’ll find out faster than he’d like.

Thor just shrugs. “I like to think I’m a good guy,” he says easily. “See you ‘round.” That’s it. Thor’s door swings shut behind him and Loki’s left alone. 

He heads inside, almost hopeful. He still has to tell ‘Boda about the rent, but maybe he’ll wait. So he can tell her he got a new job, too. If he can get the job. And if that would really matter to ‘Boda. It worries him that he can’t say for sure. 

Hela’s sitting in the highchair where he left her. She hasn’t been coughing much today, and last time ‘Boda had taken them to the hospital the doctor had said she was doing well. Loki leans down to give her a kiss, careful not to get paint on her, too. He tastes salt on her soft forehead. “Ah-oop!” Hela squeals, delighted. Loki’s learned that means ‘up’.

“Just washing my hands,” he chuckles. “Then up.”

“Ah-oop!” she babbles, pouting. 

“Up, up,” Loki echoes playfully as he turns on the tap. There’s a hiss from the pipes, and the water runs red. He digs the stains out from under his fingernails. He tries hard not to think. Not to remember the coppery smell. It stayed on everything – the clothes, his hair. No matter how many times he’d washed after his shift. ‘Boda still smells that way sometimes, under the antiseptic. That smell’s his clearest memory. No. Loki stares at his wet hands. That’s a lie. It’s their eyes. The pigs’ smart, black eyes watching him walk to the kill floor. Blinking up at him as they nuzzled at his hand or the back of his knee. It’s sick, and he knows it, but he thinks about the pigs more than he does about Thijazi. He’d never meant to do anything to Thijazi. There’s a clatter behind him as Hela hammers the highchair’s table. “Da! Oop!” Loki swings her out of the chair and lifts her over his head. “Oop!” he laughs, copying her. “So high! That’s where we’ll go. Oop high and far away!”

Maybe. The next morning, when Thor comes back with the form, Loki’s still letting himself hope. They sit at Loki’s kitchen table and Thor watches him fill out the boxes. Loki flips the page and stops.

“What?” Thor asks him.

“Nothing,” Loki sighs. “I’m just dumb.” Thor waits for the rest of the answer. “How’m I gonna get to Sioux Falls?” Loki explains. “I can’t use ‘Boda’s car and… what?” Now it’s his turn to ask, since Thor’s shaking his head and laughing.

“You are dumb,” Thor chuckles. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, I can’t ask–”

“You still haven’t asked me for anything,” Thor reminds him. “It only makes sense. I’m driving to the same place anyway.”

Why? Loki’s about to ask again. What’s it matter to you? But before it comes out he hears that wet cough from Hela’s crib.

“Shit.”

Loki’s chair scrapes the floor as he hurries over. He picks her up and reaches into her mouth to scoop the thick, brown mucus out from between her baby teeth. Hela keeps coughing. Loki swings her over his shoulder and cups his hand. He thumps her back with the hollow of his palm to a steady beat. He can feel her little lungs seize.

“She sick or something?” Thor calls from the table. Loki never once breaks his rhythm as he answers.

“I’m sure you’ve heard us fight about that, too. Sorry,” he adds, when Thor looks away, embarrassed.

“That’s fine,” Thor tells him. The only sounds are Loki’s thumps in between Hela’s wheezing. “You gotta do that for a while, huh?” Thor asks finally.

“Half-hour, maybe. You don’t have to stay if,” Loki trails off. “You should get some sleep.”

“Nah,” Thor sighs. “I’ll wait until you’re done filling this out.” He slides the half-done form across the table.

“Thor, I –”

“I already said I’ll drive you,” Thor insists. “If it really means that much to you, you can pay for half the gas.”

Thor never lets him pay. There’s always at least half a tank of gas in the truck when they leave in the evenings, and if Loki brings it up, Thor cranks up the radio. Sometimes Thor sings along. That shuts Loki up pretty quick. It’s just under an hour’s drive to Sioux Falls, and still light enough out to eat a quick dinner in the parkette. They’re always there earlier than the rest of Thor’s crew, so it’s only ever just the two of them. 81 Wagner Drive is right across the street, and by sundown Loki’s heading into the locker room to get into his new uniform. The shirt’s too big and the jacket’s too small and wearing it Loki feels better than he’s had in months. The first night, he’d gotten lost, and Thor had shown him the way to the locker room. He’d hung around while Loki changed so he could show him the way back. He hung around the next few nights, too. Just in case. 

Loki’s shift ends at 8:00AM. Thor could leave earlier, and they both know it, but he waits around the lobby or in the Denny’s down the street. Fridays, he buys them breakfast before they hit the road. Loki’s grateful, only – ‘Boda takes a later shift, so there’s someone with Hela in the mornings, but Loki doesn’t like leaving them alone for so long. “I got a job,” he tells her, because even though they’re only together for an hour in the mornings and an hour at night, ‘Boda still finds time to argue. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I don’t care, you can’t leave me like this. I can’t handle her.”

“You’re her fucking mother!” It still scares him, to shout at ‘Boda. To swear at her. But Hela needs both of them.

“And who’s fault is that?” ‘Boda snaps. Or sobs, some days. Swearing or no swearing, he still ends up with bruises. And he still rushes Thor to get him home in the mornings. Thor doesn’t like to rush.

“Want a bite?” Thor keeps one hand on the wheel and offers his breakfast sandwich. A bit of pink sausage drops into the cupholder as the car turns. Loki shakes his head, nose wrinkling. “Sure?” Thor grins as he brings the greasy wrapping paper closer. “Look, I’ll leave you some. You gotta eat something.” Loki reaches to open the window, but Thor keeps pressing down the master control on his armrest. And the window keeps sliding back shut.

The whole cabin smells of sausage by the time they reach the freeway. Then he finally lets Loki crack open a window. “But I’m warning you,” he jokes. “It’s karaoke all the way home.”

“Fair trade.” Loki sticks his head out the window and breathes deep as the radio comes on. The wind rushing by almost drowns out Thor, wailing along to some kind of horrible love song.

Loki’s not sure when it starts, really. Only that one time, Thor’s hand slips off the wheel and ends up on Loki’s knee. Loki gives him a look and the hand goes away. But a couple weeks later it’s back. 

“Thor,” Loki says, carefully. 

“Yeah.” Thor’s voice is hoarse. His eyes are locked on the road. His hand slides higher. Loki pulls away, pressing back into his seat and jerking his leg. Thor won’t look at him. His hands are clenched so tight the knuckles gleam. But at least both hands are back on the wheel.

“I’m sorry,” Loki tells the silence. He’s not sure what he’s sorry for, only he feels he either should be or will be. Thor still says nothing, just turns on the radio. For once, he doesn’t try to sing along. Stepping out onto the street, Loki thanks him for the ride like always, and heads inside to change. He catches himself watching the door in the scratched corner of the mirror, and worries all the night long about the morning. By 8:00AM, Thor seems back to himself, and Loki’s happy to forget whatever it was that happened. He wants to forget.

“Thor.”

Loki should be used to not getting what he wants.

“Hm?” Thor’s hand keeps sliding up, and this time the grip tightens when Loki tries to pull away.

“Don’t –”

And just like that grip is gone, as if Loki’d imagined it, and Thor is looking at him with the confused frown.

“You okay?” he asks, gently.

“No!” Loki snaps. He leans forward and lets his head hang between his knees. He digs his fingers into his eyes until he sees spots. “If this is some joke or something –”

“It’s not.”

“– it’s not funny. What?” Loki sits back up. Thor’s gone back to watching the road. “You say something?”

“No, I get it,” Thor sighs. “People were the same way about it back home. I just thought it’d be different up here.” His voice got painfully quiet. “Maybe just different with you.”

“I,” Loki’s not sure what he’s trying to say. All he knows is he doesn’t want Thor’s hand on him again, because he’s not sure if this time he’ll let go. “I’m just not that way,” he manages finally. “Not that – I mean, it’s fine and everything.” Thor looks as sad as he’d even seen him.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Loki says. It’s doesn’t seem like there’s much else he can say. 

All Thor says, again is, “Okay.”

Loki turns the radio on so neither of them have to talk. 

They pull into the driveway and Thor steps out while the engine’s still sputtering. He can hear Loki calling after him, but he can’t answer. He just waves and closes his front door carefully behind him. He doesn’t want it to slam. He doesn’t want to look angry. His hand still feels hot and he can hear his blood rushing. Pounding. He forces himself to take off his boots. To sit. The shouting crashing through the wall is not helping. Of course the shouting started the moment they got home. He should go down to the basement, he thinks. If he closes the door, he can hardly hear what they’re shouting about. Thor doesn’t get up. 

“– can’t notice everything!” Angrboda’s voice gets louder. Shriller. “I can’t watch her every minute you’re not here.”

“Well, you have to!” 

Thor frowns, hearing that. The voice barely sounds like Loki’s. Loki doesn’t get angry. Loki pleads. Loki cries. That’s how Thor –

“We’re going to the hospital,” Loki decides through the wall. “Now.”

“She’s fine, she’ll be fine.”

“You said she stopped breathing!” Thor can hear their shoes scuffing on the kitchen tiles, and the clatter of a mug landing in the sink as Angrboda repeats under her breath how she can’t, she can’t, she can’t. Something thuds against the wall, hard enough to make it shake.

“I said she’s fine!” It sounds like panic, and silence follows. Thor has to strain to hear when Loki’s ragged voice breaks through.

“’Boda, what did you do?”

It’s an empty quiet than answers, because Hela isn’t crying. Loki asks again. And again, and louder, and again and car keys jangle as they’re smacked out of someone’s hand. Thor hears feet rushing to the door, and a body hit the screen. He hears Loki shout. Angrboda screams. Thor realizes he’s pacing. He’s already reaching for the door when he hears the dull blow land. He doesn’t break his stride, just keeps walking out onto the porch and turns. He’s halfway there when he realizes he’s still in his socks. The next scream raises his every hair on end, and he doesn’t even think to go back for his boots. He hears the crying just as he reaches their front door. Now Loki sounds familiar, at least. 

 

Coulson steps over the crime scene tape that’s strung across the Laufeyson’s door. It should get easier. He always tells Val it gets easier, even though they’ve been partners long enough for her to know not to believe him. She’s still inside taking pictures. Trying not to step in the blood. It should get easier. The wood is rough under his hands as he leans against the railing. Gravel crunching lets him know when the folks from the coroner’s office pull in.

“You didn’t have a smaller one?” he calls, when he sees them taking the body bags out of the back.

“The dispatcher said ‘child’,” one of the techs answers.

“We can tie off the end,” the other adds.

Coulson’s too tired to argue. Instead, he heads down to the driveway where Thor is still waiting. He’s sitting on the passenger side of his truck, his bare feet dangling out through the open door. The bloodstained socks are in a clear evidence bag in Coulson’s cruiser. Thor keeps glancing back at the house. Coulson clears his throat, and pulls the keys to the truck out of his pocket.

“Alright, Mr. Odinson, you’re free to go. Have you got somewhere to stay? We should only be three or four days,” he tells Thor, returning the keys. “We’ll give you a call when you can move back in.”

“Thanks,” Thor sighs quietly. 

“I know Val’s already taken your statement, but if you remember anything else, you give me a call, okay?” Coulson scribbles down the precinct number and his extension. Thor takes the page and blinks at it. 

“Thanks,” he repeats, glumly. “But I mean, they fought a lot. Maybe I should’ve said something earlier, or talked to him,” he trails off. He shakes his head. “Maybe if I’d gone in there I could’ve stopped him.”

“I can put you in touch with a trauma counsellor,” Coulson offers. He expects a gruff ‘no’, but Thor just nods gratefully.

“I could have at least stopped him running.”

“No,” Coulson reassures him. “You did the right thing, calling us. The department’s put out an APB, and that’s about the most we can do right now. Like I said, if you remember anything else –”

“Phil!” Val follows the coroners out onto the porch. They’re balancing the mother’s body on the stretcher. Val is holding a small, black bundle – awkwardly out in front of her, to keep from cradling it. The half-empty body bag droops over her arm as she closes the door behind her. “Clean up crew said they’ll be here in the morning. Ready to get outta here?”

That seems to snap Thor back. He closes the door and clambers over into the driver’s seat. The grooves of the pedal dig into his foot as he drives away. He can still hear Loki’s muffled sobs, growing louder as the house shrinks out of sight in the rear-view mirror. They don’t last long, and soon all Thor can hear is the sharp, nervous breathing. Breathing that jolts with each pothole and bump in the road.


	2. Hear No Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this one was tough to write but I think it's my favourite chapter. Let me know what y'all think!

“Shoot,” Clint signs. Natasha rubs at the dark rings under her eyes. “Was I snoring again?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Just couldn’t sleep,” she yawns, signing as she speaks. “I think we’ve got squirrels or something under the house,” she adds. “I keep hearing something hitting the wall.”

“Ask Thor to check it out,” Clint suggests. Natasha rolls her eyes. “What, you want me to pretend I’m a handyman?” He laughs, almost sneezing in his coffee at the look she gives him then. “I’ll ask him. Made you coffee,” he adds, one-handed, as he brings her the mug.

“Babe!” He doesn’t need her to sign it. He can read it on her lips and in her smile. He leans down to kiss her right where her cheek dimples.

“Oh, hey,” she catches his arm. “You need the car today? I finally talked Val into an interview.”

Clint frowns. “Which one is Val? The death row guard?”

“Ex-guard,” Natasha signs, downing her coffee. “The one that sat a death watch before she quit. I should swing by the liquor store before meeting up.”

“I’ll leave you some takeout,” Clint promises. “You want shitty pizza or shitty Chinese?”

He sees her shoulders twitch as she snorts. “How sad is it that I miss salads?”

“Veggie stir fry, got it,” he grins. 

Natasha downs her coffee and grabs a bagel on the way out. She turns at the door to flash him a quick, “I love you.” Clint signs it back. Then pours himself another mug and settles in. His camera and the laptop sit stacked on the table, staring him down. Useless. He smirks. He should re-read the pitch he sent his editor when Natasha told him where they were going. It isn’t that he thinks a portrait of rural Americana is a bad idea for an op-ed. Only Geirrod’s Hall’s no kind of portrait. Everything here is shabby and grey and small and it smells. Clint can only take so many pictures of the freeway and so many photo-walks by the river. Only so many shots of the meat-packers coming in off the line or of Thor elbows deep under the hood of his truck. 

But the camera’s still waiting, so Clint picks it up and takes it out into the yard if only for something to do. Thor’s laundry is out drying. There’s the same green shirt blowing there like every other week, with dark stains that never quite wash out. Clint snaps a photo, freezing it. Then a shot of the house, with Thor’s bricked-up basement window a dark red against the autumn mud. He heads around to the porch just as Thor’s front door swings open. Clint’s shutter clicks and the catches the motion. The blur of Thor’s face through the screen. It’s the one face Clint can’t ever get right. Thor’s friendly and funny and kind. Thor’s tongue sticks out to his upper lip when he tries to remember how to sign, “How are you?” 

But Thor’s pictures don’t look like Thor. His face goes cold, like Clint caught it the split second before Thor remembered someone was looking. 

“Fine,” Clint flashes a thumbs up. “Going for a walk.” He signs it slowly, and watches Thor piece the words together and beam once he gets it right. “You?”

Thor shrugs. “Picking up some mail.” Clint guesses that’s what he’s said, anyway. His beard makes the words hard to read. “Need anything?” Clint shakes his head and waves Thor down the drive. As the truck drives off, Clint shuffles a few steps back on the gravel. He lines up his shot – the whole house, and some of the wooded ravine beyond. That’s when he sees – or thinks he sees – a shadow, waiting behind Thor’s door. It’s gone faster than his finger can twitch and the photo just shows the house, nothing more. Clint frowns and comes up to the porch to look through the screen, through the small pane in the white door behind it. The glass is dull and scratched and Clint can barely see the shape of a kitchen table. For a moment it looks like there’s someone sitting at it. But the moment goes.

Clint blinks and sees the road reflected in the cloudy glass. For once, in the morning mist and under the ruddy leaves, it looks almost beautiful. Clint smirks, and aims, and steals the sight. He nods appreciatively and heads off to the road. Maybe he’ll write a new pitch. Fall-ing: My Descent into Rural Americana.

Clint scraps the idea by the time he gets home. Thor’s back by then, unloading a week’s worth of cardboard crates they’d kept for him at the 24/7 Parcel. The bright blue Stark SmartHome logo is pasted across most of them. Thor catches Clint looking, and grins. Clint pulls out his phone.

“Those work at all?” he types. “Nat and I were thinking about it for our place in NY,” he adds, before showing the text to Thor. 

“The doorman’s pretty good,” Thor says. At Clint’s confused look he opens the front door and points to the message that appears on his phone. Inside the house, Clint sees a little light flashing red on the wall by the door. “I’ll let you know about the thermostat.”

“Oh,” Clint snaps his fingers and takes his phone back. “Nat said she heard some noises under the house last night. You hear anything?”

Thor reads the note. Blinks. Then he shrugs and shakes his head. Clint lipreads the rest of his answer. “Hearing the shit she hears all day though, I’m not surprised she’s got trouble sleeping.” 

Clint acts like he doesn’t understand, because his Natasha doesn’t get troubled. She laughs things off or fixes them or both. But Clint’s had the same thought before.

Natasha comes home late that night, like every night, and stays up later still. The light from the kitchen bleeds into the bedroom until Clint can’t keep pretending he’s asleep. He pulls on his socks and a sweater and still shivers in the wet autumn chill. The cold doesn’t bother Natasha. He can see by the green light on her voice recorder that she’s playing back the day’s interviews. He never asks her to tell him what they say. And she never offers.

She isn’t typing, just listening. Their happy faces laugh up at him from her screensaver, sitting in the sun on a balcony in Budapest. They’d loved it there. Clint sits down beside her and takes her hand. Natasha leaves the interview playing.

“Take tomorrow off,” he signs. “We can take a hike by the creek.”

“I’m getting a tour of the execution chamber tomorrow.” Her hands move slowly, her fingers numb. “If you want to come out to Sioux Falls with me,” she adds. “I heard there’s exactly one brunch place that opened up.” She forces herself to smile. To turn off the tape. To come back.

“Ooh, the big city,” Clint plays along, chuckling. “Sure. Let’s go together. I can come on the tour, too, if you want me there.” 

She doesn’t. She looks away, back at the table. Back at her notes and the ‘play’ button flashing red. “I’m trying to be objective,” she admits. “I am. But I figured out my title yesterday. I’m calling it ‘Killer Country’.”

“Bleak,” Clint signs. “I like it.”

Natasha smiles thinly. “Better than ‘Getting Away with Murder’, anyway.”

They leave first thing in the morning, and aren’t back until past dark. Natasha hardly talks the whole ride home. Except to say she has to meet up with Val again. 

“Why?” Clint asks, exasperated. The red street light pours through the windshield over Natasha.

“Because its awful enough when they go right. And she saw it go wrong.”

Clint doesn’t ask any more.

When they get to the house, it’s Clint who notices the plaster dust on their steps. And it’s Natasha who notices the door’s unlocked. Clint goes in first. He doesn’t see anything missing – not their laptops or the speakers or the coffee maker. Once he looks up at the wall, though, he can’t un-see it. There’s a patch of fresh plaster, just lighter than the paint. Just above the kitchen table.

“What the fuck?” Natasha doesn’t bother signing it. There’s a note on the table, from Thor, that just says, ‘Sorry – slipped moving the TV’. Natasha’s out the door and knocking on Thor’s before Clint can stop her. Thor opens, and it’s the smell that hits Clint. He notices the flush afterwards, and the tangled hair and t-shirt pulled on the wrong way around. He notices the split, bloody knuckles, too, and moves to stand between Natasha and Thor. The smell keeps seeping out the unit as Natasha tears into Thor, until Clint’s pretty sure the whole porch smells like sex and Thor’s never looked more ashamed of himself.

“You left the door unlocked,” Clint sees him say. “And it’s not like Thanos was going to come by and fix it. I’m sorry, really. I never meant anything by it.” 

Clint feels Natasha shaking beside him as she shouts something final and stalks off. Thor looks after her with a worried eye. “Rough day?” he asks Clint. All at once Clint is angry. He pulls out his phone.

“You didn’t make it any better.”

Thor reads it, sadly. “I know. I’m not good at making things better.”

Clint starts to wonder what it is Thor is good at, exactly. Because for an electrician, he’s done a lousy job with his thermostat. When Thor’s in the house, it works fine enough that Clint doesn’t notice it. But some nights – nights with no pattern to them except that Thor leaves angry, slamming his door hard enough for Clint to feel it through the wall. Some nights, the temperature just drops. The wall lets some of the cold through, and it’s worst in the kitchen by the weak plaster patch. Clint doesn’t say anything for a week and a half. Friday night it rains. Their unit gets clammy, but when Clint brushes by the wall he swears. His hand flushes red with the chill. Thor doesn’t come home in the morning, or in the afternoon. Clint sends him a text before heading out on his walk, but he doesn’t get a reply. 

It’s almost dark once Clint gets back. Natasha’s working late again, so he isn’t in any hurry. Thor’s lights are on and his truck is parked out front and Clint walks up to Thor’s front door before he’s thought it through. He knocks. Waits. Knocks again. It’s still about a minute before Thor opens. He looks calm, and smiles when he sees Clint. But he doesn’t invite him in. Over Thor’s shoulder, Clint sees a plate of kung pao chicken on the table. And a bowl of veggie stir fry on the floor. There’s sauce on Thor’s fingers, and he wipes it absently on his jeans. 

“Hey,” Clint waves. He pulls out his phone. “Just wanted to check if you got my text. About your thermostat?”

Thor flashes a thumbs up and mimes writing. Clint hands him the phone. “Thanks. Don’t worry – won’t have that problem any more.” That night, their wall is pleasantly warm. It stays that way almost a week, whether Thor’s home or not.

The routine comes back, but it feels different than before. Clint can’t put a finger on it. Maybe it’s that Thor seems happier now. Maybe it’s that there’s fewer clothes out drying and the stained green shirt isn’t blowing out on the laundry line any more. Maybe it’s the smells coming in from Thor’s unit – heady smells of dinner cooking all afternoon long. Thor tells him he bought a slow-cooker. He should probably ask Thor the brand, because the stews are delicious. Thor brings over a pot and three beers one night – an apology, he tells Natasha. It still takes some convincing for her to let him in.

The next night Thor comes over, Clint tells him to bring enough for four. He bursts out laughing then, because Thor looks terrified. Clint hurries to reassure him they’re not trying to set him up with someone. It’s just Natasha’s talked Val into coming over.

“Another interview?” Clint asks her. Natasha bites her lip.

“She got suspended,” she admits. “And she just doesn’t need to be alone right now. Please?”

It’s not like Clint can say no. “Should I buy rubbing alcohol or something?” he jokes. Natasha frowns.

“Don’t.”

Val brings a bottle of Jack for dinner. And a second one for herself. She tries to talk to Clint by talking louder, until Natasha slides her a notepad and taps the pencil meaningfully. Clint laughs, and pours them both a drink. He ends up pouring Val two more before they hear Thor knocking.

Thor’s big smile freezes for a second when he spies Val sitting at the table. She frowns. 

“You two know each other?” Natasha speaks and signs together, for Clint’s benefit.

“We’ve met,” Clint sees Thor say. Then he sees Val’s, “Not really. He was a witness,” she adds, reluctantly, when Natasha frowns. She turns back to Thor. “You,” she starts to ask. Clint sees her pause. “You still live here, then?”

Clint knocks on the table to get their attention, and Natasha translates for him. “Wait, you were a witness to something here?” Clint gestures around the kitchen. “In the duplex?” Natasha adds.

Now it’s Thor’s turn to be uncertain.

“Thanos didn’t tell you two?”

“Domestic dispute,” Val explains distantly. She doesn’t meet anyone’s eye, just stares at the red dregs in her glass. “We found the wife and the baby girl dead in the kitchen.”

Clint feels the silence settle over them. He finds himself looking at the tiles. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He hopes – hopes – that there’s nothing to find. Natasha touches his arm and he realizes Thor’s started speaking.

“– troubled, you know? I mean, I could always hear him shouting at her when I got home. Shouting at the kid, too. When she cried. I thought… it’s hard to forget, but staying here. Making this place feel normal again. It helps.” 

Val’s looking at him like she’s trying to understand. Clint’s sure he doesn’t understand.

“So did you catch the guy?” he asks, through Natasha. Thor looks at Val, and she hesitates. 

“We’re still looking,” she says finally. Then she catches herself. “They. They’re still looking.”

It’s Clint who has trouble sleeping that night. He doesn’t know what a scream sounds like, but he knows in his dream someone’s screaming. And someone’s waiting. Just outside his window, just on the porch with one hand on the door. Someone’s waiting to come home.

He wakes in a cold sweat. Natasha’s sleeping soundly beside him. She’s been sleeping better since she started taking the pills. He doesn’t want to wake her, and he doesn’t want to go in the kitchen in the dark. Right now, he’s not sure what he’ll see there. Instead Clint heads down the carpeted stairs to the basement they barely use and flicks on the light. It’s a small, plain room, and the carpeting frays on the bottom step and turns into a dusty cement floor. There’s a little window high in corner and peeling paper on the shared wall. Clint sits down with his back against it, knocking little slivers of blue loose. He lets his head thump back. He wants to leave. He wants to leave this house and this town, and go home. He wants Natasha to finish her piece and move on to something that doesn’t make her so sad. He wants their life back. 

Suddenly he jumps, startled. He feels it – tapping, knocking – against his back. He puts a hand against the wall and feels it again. It’s frantic. Clint pulls his hand away and steps back, shaking his head. This place has got him so wired he’s scared of squirrels in the walls. He turns off the light and heads back up to bed.

It’s November soon, and Natasha’s close enough to being done that Clint hangs a calendar on the fridge and starts marking off the days just so they can both see how close home is. Geirrod’s Hall’s getting ready for winter, and Clint heads out to try and catch the last of the fall colors before they’re gone. Natasha has the car and Thor’s at work, so he just heads down into the ravine behind the house. The air is thick with smoky fog in there, and the fallen leaves have turned an ashy brown in the grey mud. There’s only a few bright sparks of red still holding on to thin, black trees. Their branches look like bones clawing at the clouds.

When Clint smells smoke, it seems to fit the ghostly autumn landscape. At first. But then he sees the long, grey plume rising above the ridge, at the end of the path that leads back to the house. Clint runs. He holds his camera against his chest with one hand and the strap beats against the back of his neck. The cold air burns his lungs and he’s sure the alarm’s gone off and the firemen are already there but he can’t stop running because his house is on fire. There’s a stich in his side by the time he’s up the hill. He can see the smoke still coming from Thor’s kitchen. He slows to a jog, then a walk, as he rounds the house and reaches the driveway. There aren’t any firetrucks there. It’s only Thor’s truck, parked in a hurry and with gravel piled up against the front wheels where he braked suddenly. The driver side door still swings open.

Thor’s front door is open to let the smoke pour out. The pillows from the couch and a little rug lie in a heap on the porch, out of the way of the fumes. The blinds from the kitchen window are there, too, blackened and twisted. The melted edges curl up. The window’s just a black pane of soot. Thor comes out onto the porch with an armful of clothes. There’s white foam from the fire extinguisher speckling his jeans. He’s angry.

“What’re you doing?” Clint sees him shout, when he spots the phone in Clint’s hand. Thor tosses his clothes on the wet lawn and stalks over. Clint holds the screen out towards him.

“Do you need help?”

“No,” Thor shakes his head stiffly. “It’s handled.”

He doesn’t stay long enough for Clint to type out another message. Instead he keeps going in and out of the house, throwing what he owns out on the lawn. Clint texts Natasha. A few times. She must be mid-interview or she would have answered by now. The smoke’s faded now and it’s just the smell and the firetrucks still haven’t come. Thor throws his last bit of bedding onto the ground and sits beside it, glaring at the house. 

“No one’s coming?” Clint types out. Gingerly, he hands Thor his phone.

“No.” Thor starts typing. He seems almost relieved. “Thanos let the smoke detectors expire.” Clint sees his shoulders shake with laughter. Reads, “Fucker,” on his lips.

“Call the cops,” he writes, but Thor shakes his head. “Then I’ll ask Nat to call them.”

Thor doesn’t hand the phone back, reading that. He looks ready to throw it into the woods. Instead, he starts typing. “I’ve got enough to deal with. You two are gone in a week. I have to stay. I’m stuck with Thanos. I’m stuck with this place. I can’t leave either.”

Clint watches him over his shoulder. Watches him delete the last word before giving back the phone. It’s a helpless feeling, leaving Thor out there. But Clint doesn’t know how to help. He isn’t really sure that he can. There’s not much damage to his and Natasha’s unit. Just some soot that bled over the ceiling and dark yellow patches slowly fading into sight in the paint. The burnt charcoal smell is there, though, heavy and bitter. It hangs there even after Clint opens the door and windows and brushes the soot off the ceiling. The smoke must have gone into the vents, he thinks. It’s worst in the basement, where the window won’t open. Clint can barely breathe in the tiny room.

Back in the kitchen, he checks the smoke detectors just to be safe. They’re about six months out of date. He texts Natasha to swing by a hardware store on the way home. She does, and she brings dinner, too. Pizza for three, and beers. It doesn’t help Thor’s mood. He eats by himself on his porch as night falls, until it gets too cold to sit still. 

“What happened?” Natasha asks Clint.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. He rubs his eyes and finds soot on his cheek. “He didn’t say. Maybe we should call the cops. We could definitely sue Thanos.”

But Natasha shakes her head.

“He’s got a point, you know. He has to stay here. We don’t. I don’t know what kind of guy this Thanos is, but if he scares Thor then I don’t want to pick a fight. I don’t think he can afford to sue Thanos.”

“Still,” Clint scowls. “We should do something.”

“Why?” she challenges. “It’s his life. He asked you not to help. It’s not our job to try and fix every broken thing.”

Clint loses his patience and gets up from the table. He leans over Natasha. “No, your job is just to find broken things to write about. And I have to come with you to dumps like this so you can write your horror stories and get depressed. And I’ve got to see that. And I can’t do anything to help!” He slams the table at the end and the empty beer cans topple silently. 

“I didn’t ask you to come!” Natasha explodes. “That was your idea.”

“Yeah, but you expected it! You expected me to be here, supporting you!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“I don’t expect anything from you!” He can see she’s screaming. “Stop making everything bad that happens here my fault. I want to go home, too!” 

Clint digs his knuckles into his eyes. “Then let’s go home,” he signs limply. “Let’s just go.” He drops back into his seat. Natasha runs her hand up his arm. “I’m sorry,” he signs after a bit. She squeezes his shoulder gently. 

“Me too,” she signs, and kisses him. Then suddenly she flinches back like something struck her, and glares at the shared wall.

That’s the moment they see the lights flicker. Just as Natasha’s starting to sign that Thor has terrible taste in music. It’s the bulb above the stove and the kitchen overhead. When he looks behind him, Clint can see the lights in the basement flicker on, too.  
“Fire must’ve fried the wiring,” Clint reasons. The lights flicker twice more and then stay still. The basement light turns off. Natasha taps her ear.

“He’s turned the music down,” she tells him. 

“Want me to ask him to turn it off?”

She shakes her head. “Let’s not bother him tonight. I have ear plugs.”

Clint goes to check on Thor in the morning, because no one’s in good shape after their house almost burns down. He brings him a coffee and couple of bagels. Thor lets him in. It’s the first time, Clint realizes. Thor’s door never opened more than halfway before. His eyes are red around the edges and he hasn’t changed his shirt since yesterday. He doesn’t smile when Clint hands him the coffee. Just nods.

“Thanks.”

Clint pulls out his phone. “Tell me if you need anything,” he writes. “Nat and I are here to the end of the week.”

Thor nods again. He starts to speak, and his mumbling makes the words hard for Clint to read.

“You ever feel like things are slipping? Just… slip – out of control. Low he… Look he makes me dot I did.” He starts muttering about a ‘reason’, maybe, and Clint can’t understand. He stops him. 

“I know you didn’t want us calling anyone,” Clint types. “But whatever the issue is with Thanos, he shouldn’t be able to treat you like this.”

Thor does smile then, when he reads the text. “Thanks,” he types back. “But I’ll be fine.”

Clint’s almost sure that isn’t true. Not when he sees the empty liquor bottles piling up in Thor’s trash. Three days after the fire it looks like Thor’s drank enough to knock a man out. But each time Clint sees him he seems stone-cold sober. 

Natasha’s started packing up their place. The day before they’re set to leave, she has a goodbye lunch with Val. Clint drops her off so he can start packing the car. He’s loading their toaster into the trunk when he sees Thor come out on the porch. Thor isn’t wearing a coat. Thor’s stumbling, almost falling against the railing as his legs twitch under him. He catches himself with his right hand. His left, he cradles against his chest. Clint drops the toaster and hurries over, because now he sees the ugly red burn on Thor’s hand. The thin, pink lines branching out from it and shooting up his arm. The smell of still-burning skin and static.

Thor slumps against him as Clint walks him to the car and helps him into the front seat. He punches the hospital’s address into his phone and drives. Gravel sprays into the toaster as he leaves. Clint doesn’t take his eyes off the road. He can’t tell if Thor’s groaning, screaming, explaining. He just drives, speeding, until they’re parked under the sign for the ER. He helps Thor up to the front desk and watches the nurse ask what happened.

“Accident,” he sees Thor answer. “Fix…some why ring…” Wiring, Clint guesses. “Some wiring at home.”

Did you have to grab the wire, Clint wonders. The burn starts right in the middle of Thor’s palm. But he doesn’t say anything, just goes to sit by Thor in the waiting area. One-handed, Thor struggles to fish his phone out of his pocket.

“You don’t have to stay. Thanks for the ride.”

“Of course I’m staying,” Clint writes back. “I’ll take you home.”

Thor sighs gratefully. Then he takes back the phone.

“Hurts like hell,” he types. Like he’s trying to distract himself. Clint winces, looking down at the burn. “I didn’t think it’d hurt this bad. Hard to imagine how much something will hurt.”

“Yeah,” Clint nods. He’s not sure Thor sees, because he’s still typing.

“It’s fucked they used to use the chair. Kill people by burning them up like that. It’s only a real sick person deserves to go like that.”

Clint stops him from typing any more, because Thor’s eyes have gone wet in the corners. 

“Take care of yourself, ok?” he writes. “When Nat and I leave.”

Thor nods, blinking fast. He wipes his nose, swallows, and doesn’t try to write anything else. When the nurse comes to get him, Clint waits by the door. He texts Natasha where he is. And he worries. Thor comes back, freshly bandaged, and with a few more days of dressings in a clear Ziploc bag. And one prescription.

“How many pills are in this?” he asks the pharmacist, when they stop to fill it on the way home.

“There’s twenty doses, which you should take every twelve hours with food. I can give you two more refills this month, each after ten days.”

Thor picks up the little bottle. The white pills bounce around inside. He looks at his bandaged hand. Clenches his jaw.

“That’s not enough,” Clint sees him say. The pharmacist just looks sympathetic.

“Come back in ten days,” she advises. Thor’s shoulders fall.

Clint’s happiest morning in Geirrod’s Hall comes the day he gets to leave. Thor says good bye over breakfast and Clint gifts him one of his photos. It’s printed in glossy black and white, and framed. Thor’s sitting on his porch in his T-shirt in the picture. There’s a beer in his hand and an oil can beside him and he’s eyeing the black engine snaking under the hood of his truck. He’s smiling. Thor takes the frame and thanks him. 

“Good days,” he signs awkwardly. And looks at the picture like he’s seeing a stranger.


	3. Speak No Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From bad to worse... Let me know what you think! I'll probably post the last chapter Tuesday or Wednesday.

It takes Val three tries to find the kitchen light switch. When she does, the stack of dirty dishes and the empty bottle swim into view by the sink. She leans on the wall until she can reach the table, then leans on the table until she can reach the fridge. There’s a couple cans of Bud Light in there, and a Tupperware full of something she doesn’t want to smell. Maybe if she leaves it for another week it’ll get better. She slams the fridge shut and starts searching through the cupboards for a bottle full of something. She finds her car keys instead. She’s sober enough to know it’s not a good idea, but just drunk enough not to care. She doesn’t want to hear the screams tonight.

There’s a lot Val didn’t tell Natasha. There’s a lot she never plans to tell. Not the sound of her footsteps on the cell block floor, or the skid of the bars sliding open. Not the way some of them were waiting. Ready. She remembers that one had smiled when she’d come. Remembers how angry that smile had made her – still makes her.

It’s the faces she has trouble with. She doesn’t see the faces of the inmates from death row. Instead, it’s Gjalp, the waitress from Heavenly Palace whose ex stabbed her sixteen times in the parking lot after one shift. It’s Greip, whose dad drowned her in the tub. It’s Gamora, who they found in pieces in her yard. It’s baby Hela with her blue lips. And Angrboda, dripping red. She hears the screams that no one heard in time. She doesn’t remember any of the inmates screaming. Val’s not sure where the memories start and the nightmares end. But she knows it’ll take more than a couple cans of beer to get through either.

It’s a quiet kind of night, with snow falling soft on the street. Most folks still have their Christmas lights up, and the colours blur together as Val brushes off her windshield and starts the engine. She can hear Coulson’s voice in her head, sighing. Telling her it’s a bad idea. But Coulson recommended they suspend her, so shows what he knows. Still, she drives more slowly than she might have until she reaches the freeway. There’s a Bottle Shop by the gas station two exits east that should still be open.

She’s the only car on the road. Miles of white snow stretch out under her headlights. She keeps getting lost in the brightness, slumping closer to the windshield until her nose almost brushes the wheel. Twice the car swerves out from under her, and she grapples with the wheel to get it back on the road. She’s pretty sure it’s the road. The wheels are still rolling, anyway. Then she sees his shape on the shoulder. He’s squinting in her beams, holding out his hand. Asking her to stop. Her first thought is to step on the gas. He’s eerily pale and thin, and his black hair falls past his shoulders. He’s clean shaven, but his clothes don’t fit and he isn’t wearing any shoes. But somehow, she finds herself slowing down, because she knows his face from the photo they used in the APB. She knows his name. She stops abruptly, and rolls down her window.

“Need a lift?” she asks him casually. She slides her left hand down from the wheel to check if the can of pepper spray is still in her pocket. It’s there. Out in the snow, Loki nods. Val’s passenger door jams and he struggles to open it with his cold hands and scrawny arms. Finally, he’s in the seat and Val takes off down the empty road.

“Where to?” she says, glancing at him. Loki hesitates. He looks out the window, then back down at his thighs. Val can see bruises ringing his throat and slipping down under the loose collar of his shirt. He smells like dirty laundry. He picks nervously at his thumb until it bleeds.

“Police station, please,” he whispers.

“What?”

Loki breathes deeply, steadying himself. “Can you take me to the police station,” he repeats. “Please?”

“Sure,” Val answers easily. Loudly. It makes him jump. “You in trouble or something?” she adds. She has her finger on the pepper spray but Loki stays still. His eyes dart back and forth like he’s looking for an answer. Or a lie. They always try to lie to her, in her nightmare memories. They say there was a reason, they say it was an accident. They didn’t mean to. They didn’t want to. They’re killers. It doesn’t matter what they want.

But Loki doesn’t lie. Well, not yet. He doesn’t say anything except repeat himself, again. “I just need to get to the police. Please.”

Val starts to drive, and the steady crunch of the fresh snow under her wheels fills their silence. Loki looks out the window. His mouth hangs open just a bit as he watches the streetlights gleaming on the white road and the dark coil of the river cutting through the glimmering lights of Geirrod’s Hall.

“Been away long?” she asks. Loki’s head twitches towards her. “It’s not that nice a view,” she clarifies. “Not when you see it every day.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then answers carefully. “Yeah. I’ve been away.” His voice shakes at the end.

“Oh yeah?” she keeps her voice casual. “Whereabouts?”

“Red Deer,” he tells her. She barely listens; she already knows it’s a lie.

“Oh yeah? My aunt lives out there. Hilde Brun?” She doesn’t have an aunt. Loki shakes his head quickly. He’s started chewing at the inside of his cheek.

“Didn’t meet –”

“So what brings you back here?” she cuts him off. “I’m sure they got police up in – you said Rawlins?”

“Sure,” Loki echoes weakly. “I just –”

“Maybe not, though,” Val barrels on. “Maybe there’s no shoes up there either, or coats.” Loki’s wet socks leave little icy pools under the seat. His heels keep slipping into them.

“I –”

“How’d you even get out here tonight, without shoes or a car or a goddamn coat or anything? You with someone? Some friend dump you here on the side of the road?”

“I just need some help!” It bursts out of Loki, and it’s the first honest thing he’s told her all night. A satisfied little smirk tugs at the corner of Val’s mouth.

“Hey, alright,” she says. “I was just asking.”

She’s made him nervous. Well, more nervous. He nods stiffly and turns to look back out the window, breathing fast enough to fog up the glass. Val sees the exit into town coming up ahead, and lets the car slow down and drift towards the turn. She could take him in. She’d get a DUI for sure, but she could. And then? He doesn’t seem like the kind who could talk himself out of two murder charges. Then again, she was sure he hadn’t seemed like the kind to murder two people, either. The most they’d do is put him on death row. Give him years of certainty, of knowing what was coming. Years to get used to it. To learn to smile about it. Val’s grip on the wheel tightens. She still hates that fucker who smiled.

“Where –” Loki starts to ask her as they speed up and fly past the exit.

“You tell me,” Val says. “Why the police? Why now? You get tired of running?”

“Where are you going?” There’s a high, panicked pitch creeping into his voice. He sits up straighter and looks over his shoulder at the sign that’s already fading out of sight.

“You know where.”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” he keeps lying, even as she takes the turn. There’s no sign on this one, but he recognizes the street all the same. She can see him put the pieces together. See him snap.

“No.”

She expected a shout, but he only whimpers as he lunges for the door. She hits the button on the armrest to lock it. Loki tugs desperately at the door for a second before he thinks to pull up the latch by the window. A second is all Val needs to grab her pepper spray.

“Hey!” she shouts, and Loki starts and looks towards the noise. Looks right into the stinging stream. He bucks and screams and digs his fists into his eyes. All that does is spread the burn to his hands. It’s cramped enough in the seat for Val to get a mouthful of the stuff. She gags as it burns down her throat. Her eyes are tearing up and blurring all the night together. But she sees the empty driveway in the trees, and the brown duplex sitting at the end. The front door is swinging wide open and snow’s started piling up inside, filling in the footprints that tumble down the porch stairs. A little red light is flashing, glancing off the gleaming white.

Loki tries again for the door as she pulls in and falls out onto his belly on the snow. Val leaves the engine running as she stumbles out and races around the front of the car, only to trip over him as he scrambles to his feet. He still can’t see and bends nearly double with the pain. It’s enough for her to get a good punch in. Loki’s head snaps back and Val curses as something cracks in her hand. He’s still standing, though. Val aims a knee at his stomach, but slips on the ice underfoot. Her blow lands lower, and Loki keens. He drops to the ground like his legs have gone soft, slamming into the car as he goes. Val loses her footing and falls with him. It’s all she can do to lie there and breathe and will the world to stop spinning.

She hears Loki get back up again, start crawling. She’s not sure when he started crying. “Please, please, don’t. Anything, just don’t. Please not there. Not back.”

Val staggers dizzily up to all fours and goes after him. He claws at her blindly and his arm collides with the side of her mouth. Her head spins. She kneels in the snow, panting. She’s gonna puke. Crawling back to the driver’s seat she can hear him running down the driveway. She hears him slip, and trip and fall and keep on running. In the seat now, she looks around, but she can’t see him in the mirror. Or out on the road. Fuck. Is he already that far? She reverses. Fast.

She spots him just a second too late, scrambling up from the snow behind her. It’s not enough time to hit the brakes. The car lurches and shudders as if she’d drove over a pothole, and a shriek tears through the windows and her bones. Val slams on the brakes. The screaming doesn’t stop so she drives forward, almost into the porch. Her hands are shaking as she parks and pulls out her keys.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She repeats it, louder and louder, like it might drown Loki out. Hands pressed over her ears, she thinks about driving away. But what if she hits him again? She should call someone. Probably 911. She searches her pocket for her phone. She looks through the glove compartment next, then under the seats and in the cupholders and Loki’s still sobbing outside in the snow and she can’t find her goddamn phone.

“Fuck!”

She slams the wheel and the car horn blares. For just one moment Loki goes quiet. The she hears the whimpers starting up again. Bracing herself, she opens the door. There’s a dark smear in the snow where her back tires rolled. It ends at Loki’s left foot. The sock’s turned almost black from the blood and his ankle looks crushed and crooked. He’s on his belly, trying to crawl away, and roll onto his side when he hears her coming. A little cry breaks out of him when his ankle turns.

“Please,” he keeps babbling. “Please, not here. Away from here. Before he’s back. Please –”

“Stop it!” Val shouts. Because she feels sick watching him twitching there, watching his left sock turn darker every time he tries to stand. “Stop moving!”

He doesn’t. Not at all. He keeps trying and trying and falling until she can’t watch anymore.

“I said stop,” she growls. A black spot blooms behind her eyes as she drops and pins him down. She doesn’t feel herself falling forward, but there’s snow against her cheek and Loki’s greasy hair that smells of sweat. She tries to sit back up, but just ends up falling again. Loki isn’t strong enough to push her off. “Shut up,” she adds.

“Just let me go,” he begs. “I don’t know who you are and I won’t say shit just please – please…”

“Let you go to the cops?” she says. “That’s not your choice. You don’t get one. You don’t get to just come back when you’re ready and turn yourself in. You don’t get to choose to kill someone and keep making choices after that.”

“Didn’t,” he gasps. “Didn’t choose. It just happened.”

Val sits up enough to see his eyes. “Things you do don’t just happen,” she says. “It happened to Angrboda. It happened to Hela. You did it.”

It’s like each of the names burns him. Val sees the tears bubbling up in the corners of his eyes. His face is still red from the pepper spray and he winces as they break and run down his temples.

“What do you want?” Loki croaks.

“I remember them,” she says instead of answering. “I couldn’t do anything except look at them. Carry her out here. I want you to know what helpless feels like. Like they knew.”

“I know,” Loki whispers, and she feels the words shake him.

“You don’t know,” she spits. “I want you to see where I found them.” She hadn’t known that’s what she wanted until it tore straight out of her. “I want you to go in there and tell me the reason they’re gone. That all of them are gone.” Even though there’s a voice inside her saying she’s asking the impossible. Because there’s no reason. There’s no reason good enough.

“No,” Loki struggles to get out from under her. “I’m not going back.”

“Guilt’s a scary –” she starts to murmur. She thinks, later, she’ll worry she enjoyed this. She doesn’t even realize she’s loosening her grip. Just enough for Loki to tilt his head down. To grab her wrist. To bite. And twist. Val shrieks and rolls off as he ducks out from under her. She stares at her wrist, pumping out blood. Feels a drop slip under her sleeve. Loki’s hands are on her then, unzipping her coat pockets. She reaches for him, but her arms are somehow heavy. The car keys jangle when he grabs them. He falls back and she sees them glinting in his hand. She tries to stand but her feet won’t go and Loki’s crawling faster than she is. He disappears in to the dark under the car and Val doesn’t dare get closer. Not when she hears the door opening.

She throws her head back and it’s cold and soft, and the headlights coming in off the street are so bright. She’s not sure why they always kept the lights so bright. It just made all the people look pale and sick. Maybe to help the doctor measure out the dose. Not that it helped. She remembers, he was still smiling when they strapped him in. He smiled all through last words she didn’t care to remember. Even when the needle had gone in. It’s when he stopped smiling that she knew something was wrong. When she saw him watching the nervous doctor, watching them reach for another needle. And just as they were closing the curtain – because the witnesses can’t actually witness it going wrong – she saw he was afraid. For the first time in years he didn’t know what was coming next.

 

Val wakes slumped over a wooden table. The grain’s pressed a red pattern into her cheek. Her head’s been split open, she’s sure, and she moans at the daylight when she opens her eyes. It’s not until she presses a hand to her forehead, she notices the pain in her arm. Slowly she rolls up the sleeve of her coat, wincing as it tears free of the dried blood. There’s a bite. Val groans. She gets to her feet and shuffles to the sink to try and wash it out at least. She jumps when the water comes out cold.

Her arm still dripping down the leg of her pants, she shuffles over to the fridge and opens it. And blinks. Because she knows she left it empty. She reaches past the two half-eaten cans of soup and checks the expiry date on the coffee creamer. It’s good for another week. The whole kitchen looks off – the blackened streaks on the wall above the stove and ceiling stained yellow with smoke. She rubs her eyes, trying to remember. Then she sees the tiled floor. She stumbles back, because in her nightmares those chipped, beige tiles are always spattered with blood. There’s always a body lying just in front of the fridge. But the tiles are clean. And Val’s alone. Until she hears the front door open.

“Val?” Thor sounds hesitant. “You still here?”

She turns, screwing her eyes shut against the day. “Hey,” she says weakly.

“Hey,” Thor sighs. “Here,” he adds, handing her a steaming paper cup. She didn’t know how cold she was until she took it. “Can I give you your keys back now?” he asks, after a beat.

“Keys?”

Thor scratches the back of his neck. “I took your keys last night,” he admits, “when I got home and you were here. I don’t know what you were thinking, driving.”

“I… I picked someone up?” she remembers. “Shit. Loki.”

Thor frowns. “What Loki?”

“I saw him! I picked him up, last night, on the road. I,” Val stops. “I brought him here.”

“Why,” Thor asks tensely. “Why would you bring him to my house?”

“I – I wasn’t thinking,” she breathes. “At all, last night. I just wanted someone – him, or someone. I wanted them to see.”

“Where is he now?” Thor asks then. Carefully.

“I don’t know. I… fuck, I think I broke his foot. And… and he took my keys,” she finishes softly. Looks at Thor, and the bright keychain lying on the table between them. “Where did you find them?”

“In the snow by your car,” Thor answers without missing a beat.

“Was there blood?” Val probes. “He was bleeding.”

“So are you,” Thor points out. “You need a ride to the hospital? You should get that checked.”

“He bit me. I think. A ride, though,” Val snaps her fingers. “He wanted to turn himself in. He wanted a ride to the police. And… and I,” she trails off. “I’ve gotta call Coulson.”

Thor catches her before she reaches the door. “Val, Val,” he repeats as he tries to get past him. “Stop. Listen to me.” She stops. She does. “What are you going to tell him?”

“That I saw a wanted murderer out on the road.”

“And why didn’t you call it in then?”

“I didn’t have my fucking phone!”

“Why didn’t you stop at the gas station? Or drive straight into town? If you had him in your car –”

“I don’t need to tell Coulson that part,” she bristles.

“No? You think he’s not gonna ask why you smell like a bar mat at 10:00AM, and why there’s someone’s bite marks in your arm? What are you gonna tell him?”

Val stops trying to pass him, and instead leans against Thor. Lets him hold her. “I’ll tell him something,” she says.

“Something won’t cut it.”

“Then… I don’t know,” she whispers. “I can’t just say nothing.”

“Yeah, you can,” Thor says gently. “It's the easiest thing to say.”


	4. Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done (kind of on schedule). It's a pretty grim one - maybe Endgame will motivate me to write Loki a cheerful story one of these days. Maybe. Comments and critique are more than welcome!

Thanos sits back in his lounge chair and kicks his feet up on the little stool just as his cell phone rings.

“Thanos,” he answers gruffly. “What.”

“Good afternoon, Mr…ah, Mr. Thanos?” the man on the phone clears his throat. “This is Eitri Smith with the Black Hills Credit Union. I’ve been appointed as executor of Mr. Odinson’s estate. It is hereby my duty to inform you that the bank will be sending a representative to Mr. Odinson’s place of residence at, uh, 18 Bilskirnir Way on April 5th to log and itemize any possessions therein. To ensure we can appropriately catalogue the estate, please make the property available to –”

“Hold on,” Thanos cuts in. He sits up and plants his feet on the floor. He scratches his nose. “What you mean, executor?  Like of a will?”

“Executor of the estate, yes.”

“Thor’s dead?”

There’s silence on the phone. Then Eitri clears his throat. “My sincerest apologies. I thought… Well, I thought someone would have called you already.”

“If he had someone they might’ve,” Thanos grunts. “What happened?”

“Mr. Odinson passed away two weeks ago. Workplace accident,” Eitri explains. “As no next of kin have presented themselves and no will has been located, I’ve been appointed as executor on behalf of the state of South Dakota.”

“So who’s paying his rent this month?” Thanos grumbled.

“The bank will cover Mr. Odinson’s rent until his estate is removed from your property,” Eitri assures him. “If you could ensure that the property is available for our representative on April 5th?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thanos agrees. “See you boys on Monday.”

“Thank you,” Eitri says. “And, uh. My deepest condolences.”

“Don’t mention it,” Thanos mutters, hanging up. With a deep sigh he stands, cracks his back, and heads for the door. Thor always seemed like the kind of guy who’d keep some cash in the house, not to mention his whole Starktech set-up. Until Monday doesn’t give him much time if he wants to be clean about it. He grabs an empty backpack on his way out. It’s finally warming up outside and he rolls down his windows as he drives, only to wrinkle his nose at the smell coming in from the slaughterhouse. Spring smells the same as every other season here.

He drives around the back and parks out of sight of the street. He waits to make sure no one’s watching before he comes around to the porch and pulls out his spare key. He only smells it once he opens the door. It’s like someone broke a bottle of cheap perfume over a dumpster. Thanos gags, and looks for the pile of rotting trash it must be coming from. But Thor’s kitchen is tidy, except for the dust that’s gathered in the last two weeks. The living room beyond is the same – tidy, barely used. There’s an unplugged TV sitting in the corner. Reluctantly, Thanos sniffs the air again. He’d like to be wrong. That would make things easier. But it’s hard to forget what a dead body smells like.

He unscrews the smart thermostat and the alarm quickly and tucks them in his backpack. Then he pauses. He could leave now – he’s not sure how much else is here that’s worth working through this smell. But he knows that’s not how this goes. If Eitri comes here on Monday and finds… whatever he finds. Well. He’s the only one left alive for the cops to ask their questions. They won’t care that he doesn’t have the answers. They didn’t when Gamora was… when she... After he found her no one cared what he had to say. It’ll be better, he thinks – knows – better if there’s no body for them to find.

He starts with the bedroom. That’s to say, he tries. There’s a padlock on the door. Thanos fiddles around with picking it for a few minutes, before heading back to his car for his bolt cutters. He grabs a scarf, too, and gulps down fresh air before tying it around his mouth and nose and heading back into the house. Thor’s bedroom at least looks like its been lived in. There’s a small pile of dirty laundry by the bed, beside a thin, green blanket. Off the bedframe hangs a length of black rope. A second padlock holds the closet shut. When the bolt cutter snaps through it, Thanos hopes he’s gotten lucky. But the only thing Thor’s got locked up in there are his clothes and boots. There isn’t even any cash in the pockets.

He checks the bed stand before he leaves. Nothing much in the top drawer but some painkillers – which he pockets – and a pack of receipts. In the drawer below, the collar’s the first thing he notices. He could almost believe it’s just a dog collar, except for how it’s sitting beside a barely-used bottle of lube. Thor’s first aid kit is in this drawer, too, along with a shaving kit. Thanos pulls that out. He’s known people to keep cash in stranger places. He’s disappointed. There’s a straight razor inside and a grey honing stone the length of a toothbrush. He puts them in his backpack anyway.

He peeks into the bathroom, not expecting much, and sees the mirror’s broken. Cracks spider out from a shattered patch the size of a fist, just above the sink. Thanos can see a few brown streaks on the wall behind the glass. The way it’s broken, when he stands in front of it, he can’t see his own eyes looking back at him. He leaves the bathroom in a hurry, not bothering to check the cabinet. Back in the main room, he busies himself with the kitchen drawers. He tells himself he’s being thorough. But he knows there’s nothing in the damn kitchen drawers. And there’s only one room left to check.

The door to the basement stairs is locked, but by now he’s expecting that. The smell gets stronger with each step. Thanos keeps a hand on the wall to guide his way down in the dark. His feet hit the concrete and he feels around for the light switch. He doesn’t turn it on right away.

“What an asshole,” he sighs. Because there was no damn reason for Thor to make this his problem. But here he is. He turns on the light.

He doesn’t expect to recognize the body, and it takes a second glance to be sure. Loki’s lying naked on the ground, barely more than skin and bones. His hair’s grown out past his shoulders and a strand’s fallen over his still open eyes. There’s a few days worth of dark stubble dusting his chin. Thanos can’t help but glance down. There’s about as much growth round his crotch. Jagged white lines branch out from there along the right side of his body. They almost look like trees, ducking in between his ribs and down his inner thigh. The cluster is the thickest there, running between faded bruises. The last of the tendrils end just below his knee, but Thanos keeps looking lower. Because Loki’s left foot is a mangled mess, swollen and bulging strangely. Between that and the crooked ankle, it doesn’t look like it would’ve been able to hold his weight.

Thanos doubts he could’ve walked out of here even if it weren’t for the chain. It’s welded to a padded metal ring that’s clasped around Loki’s neck. The other end is bolted to the wall. It can’t be longer than five feet. A little to the left, part of the wall’s been peeled back and the wiring hangs out in loose loops. Two of the cables are capped with black tape. There’s a little red bucket in the corner of the room, and that’s it. Nothing else. Not even a bottle of water.

Thanos hisses out a long, low breath. Something’s crawling under his skin, cold and filthy. It takes him a moment to call it fear. It’s only a body, and all the scariest parts are already done. Still, Loki’s milky eyes look up at him and Thanos wants to run back up the stairs. But he doesn’t. He looks into those dead eyes and doesn’t take one step back. When he stops hearing the blood pounding in his ears, he gets down to work. He looks around upstairs for a tarp, but only finds a pair of garbage bags and the green blanket from Thor’s bedroom. He hopes they’ll hold at least on the way up the stairs.

It takes him two or three tries with the bolt cutters to snap the chain off Loki’s neck. He nicks his throat doing it, and sets the bolt cutters gingerly down on the black plastic bags. Then he looks at the length of chain still screwed into the wall. It’s a good chain, he thinks, pulling out his screwdriver. It doesn’t take nearly as long to get this end free. Once the chain is coiled neatly in his back pack, he turns back to the body. He hasn’t closed Loki’s eyes, and just thinking about touching his mottled skin makes Thanos sick. He tries to shrug it off. The dead don’t judge. Still, he wraps Loki’s head up first, drawing the rough green fabric over his hollow face.

Loki’s too stiff to roll easily up into the blanket. His legs won’t straighten and his arms won’t bend, and Thanos can feel his bones through the shroud as he carries him down the stairs. He’s lighter than he should be. Lighter by half. Thanos reaches the landing and sets Loki down propped up against the kitchen sink. Somehow, he’s out of breath. Or maybe it’s just his heart that won’t stop racing. He pulls out his phone.

“Hello?”

“Are you working tonight?”

“Hello to you, too.” Nebula sounds bored. She always does, even when she’s angry. The phone makes her voice husky with static. “Why?”

“Are you?” Thanos presses.

“Sure.”

“Alone?”

There’s a pause on the line. Then, “What did you do?” Now at least she sounds interested.

“Bring the truck by the duplex on your way in, ok?”

“It’s not on my way.”

“Then go a different way,” he snaps. “And back up to the porch. I’ll be waiting inside.”

“I can’t just –”

“Please.”

She’s silent. They’re neither of them used to hearing him ask. He hears her huff and agree, and hangs up without bothering with goodbye. Thor’s couch faces the blank TV and he sinks into the pillows with his back to the door. And to Loki. Just once more he thinks of running, of calling the cops from somewhere half-way home about a rotting smell. But he’d called them when he’d found Gamora. He’s learned better than to ask for help.

He’s been tugging at a thread in the couch for minutes enough that he’s stopped counting when he hears Nebula rattle up the driveway. The Mack truck is plain, scratched-up white, with only the little red logo on its side to explain why it stinks of rotting meat. Nidhogg Reduction and Rendering Services. A bit of pink sinew still dangles from the cross-bar in the loading box, bouncing wetly as the truck sputters to a stop. Nebula drops down from the cabin with a powder blue surgical mask swinging around her neck. She’s sprayed it with so much lavender scent it stinks.

“Stay in the cabin,” Thanos barks. Nebula stops at the steps to the porch and slouches on the railing.

“So I came,” she drawls. “A ‘thank you’ might be, I dunno. Nice? Decent? Expected?”

“Thanks,” Thanos mutters. “Now get back in the cabin. This won’t take long.” He waits, arms crossed, but she doesn’t go.

“You wanna tell me what you’re doing?” she asks flatly.

“Got some trash to clear out,” Thanos shrugs. “Asshole let it rot when he left. And I don’t want it stinking up the car on the way to the dump.”

“Seriously?” Nebula sighs.

“Yeah.”

“You can’t just find a dumpster?”

“Well, now you’re already here…”

“Oh, fuck off,” she groans. “I thought – you sounded freaked out earlier.” Thanos says nothing. He doesn’t trust himself to sound much calmer now. “Is it mostly, like, organic?” she asks finally. “’Cause I don’t wanna blow up the plant rendering batteries or some shit.”

“Sure.”

“Fine. Sixty bucks and I’ll take it.”

“Sixty bucks?” Thanos splutters. “What, they don’t pay you –”

“Not even close to enough,” she snorts. “So?”

“Fucking fine,” he grumbles. “Come by tomorrow for the cash. Now get back in the cabin.”

At last she listens and goes. Thanos waits until she’s closed the door before heading back into the kitchen. He picks Loki up but only gets him down the porch steps before Nebula jumps out onto the gravel.

“Hey!” she calls. “Don’t tell me you’re putting those bags in there…” She trails off when she sees the shape of the bundle in his arms. “What’s in the bags?” she asks carefully.

Thanos lets Loki drop onto the bed of the loading box with a dull thud. He steps around the side of the truck and stops Nebula before she can come too close. Close enough to really look.

“Dad,” she snaps. “What are you putting in my truck? What did you –” she catches herself. “What’s going on?”

“You need to get back inside,” Thanos says slowly. “And if you want me to take it out the bags, you gonna close your eyes and keep them closed.”

It’s the first time in years he’s seen any kind of feeling in her face. It twists his gut so much that that feeling’s fear.

“Is that… was it?” Her voice’s gone small. “Who?”

“It’s just some trash the tenants left,” Thanos repeats. “I don’t know any more, and you don’t know any more. Just some –”

“Stop it!” It’s not loud enough to say she’s shouting, but it’s close. “This crazy shit –” she grits her teeth. “I can’t believe you called me. I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t!” He closes in on her and brackets her against the side of the truck. Her eyes are too wide and her breath comes too quick but Thanos plants one hand against the grimy metal and hold out his other palm. “Phone,” he orders.

“This isn’t like Gamora!” Nebula explodes. “Nobody has any reason to look at you! If you just leave it alone, let the cops find it –”

“They’ll find it in the house I own!”

“So? Like you said.” Her voice shakes. “Tenants leave trash behind all the time. And there’s nothing else ties back to you.” Thanos can’t look her in the eye. “Right?” Nebula hesitates. “Dad, tell me there’s nothing.”

“I can’t.”

She goes quiet for a bit. “Did you know… him?” she guesses.

“I know enough that they’ll come asking questions. And it won’t stop at questions.” Not when they think they know the kind of man he is. Not when there’s a cold case file on someone’s desk with pictures of pieces of his little girl all over its pages. “I don’t have another way,” he admits. “Believe me, I wouldn’t ask you if I did. Now give me your phone and get in the cabin. Please,” he adds, when she doesn’t move. “I don’t want you to have to see.”

“People are gonna come looking,” she says. “If someone just goes away, people look.”

Thanos shakes his head. “Nobody’s looking. Not for him.”

“Jesus,” Nebula breathes.

“But you say anything, and it’s me they’ll come looking for. So, phone?”

“I won’t –”

“People get dumb when they’re scared.”

“Like this?” It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Yeah,” Thanos sighs. “Like this. Hand it over.”

She hesitates. And then she pulls the phone out of her pocket and sets it down in his hand. He watches her walk numbly up to the cabin and pull herself inside. Their eyes meet in the mirror, just for a second. Before she looks away. Thanos bends down and drops Loki into the loading box. The garbage bags are easy to pull off, but unwrapping the blanket takes some work. He’s sure he’s wiping something’s guts off the metal with each roll. Finally, Loki spills out, smacking against the cross bar as Thanos tugs the last of the blanket out from under him. He lies there, pale, face down against the grooves and one arm still bent at awkward angle. Thanos shoves the blanket into the garbage bag and turns away, hitting the side of the truck as he goes. There’s a whir as Nebula flicks the switch and the loading box is lifted on slow metal arms. It bangs twice against the edge of the truck before Loki falls. He lands, slapping against the skin and fat and guts and bone that are piled up inside. Thanos walks up to the cabin as Nebula lowers the loading box back down. He knocks and she rolls down the window. But the door stays shut.

“This is the easy part,” he tells her. “Just drive down to the plant and drop it off. Come by after it’s done for your phone.”

Nebula doesn’t look at him. “And my sixty bucks,” she says numbly.

“Sure.”

She nods, and rolls the window back up and starts the engine. Thanos watches her go and hopes she’ll come by after her shift. And come alone. He wouldn’t blame her too much if she didn’t. He locks up the house and drags himself and his backpack into his car. He almost makes it home before the nausea hits him, and he pulls over on the shoulder of the road and pukes onto his front tire. He sits there for a minute, idling, the last of the spittle dribbling down to his boot. He heaves again, and forces himself not to wonder how long, or what for, or who else. Or why. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to understand. He gets himself home and showers. And showers again. He’s sure he can still smell it on his hands.

It's two days later when he finds the chain, still coiled up in the bottom of his backpack. Nebula’s come – without calling the cops – and picked up her cash, and gone. And told him not to call her again for a while.

“How long’s a while?” he asks.

“Just… I need a while.”

She doesn’t say she’ll call. She doesn’t say goodbye, either. Thanos stays in his chair and watches her drive away. It’s only once she’s gone he can’t keep still. He’s got to move, stand up and move his hands and give himself something else to think about. And the backpack is right there. That’s when he finds the chain again.

He could return it. He’d found the receipt, and they have a ninety day return policy. He’s got time. He tells himself that for two more weeks. Then it’s a Thursday, and close enough to May that he doesn’t need his coat. Warm enough that he starts sweating as he digs the hole in the hard soil of his yard. The chain clinks as he tosses it inside, and little pebbles chime on the links as he buries it. He stands there on the fresh turned earth and thinks he should say something. Even if – especially if – there’s no one there to hear it. He even opens his mouth. Then breathes. And closes it. And turns, back through his door into the house and into his chair. He turns on the TV. Turns up the volume until it’s louder than the silence. It’s not like there’s anything he can say.

 

 


End file.
